


Crowned

by freakydeakymoonmagic



Series: Cold, Cold City [2]
Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Battle for the World Champion Arc, Borgov is divorced, Cold War Tension, Established Relationship, F/M, FIDE World Chess Championship, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Liberal use of Italics, Light Angst, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pining, Secret Relationship, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakydeakymoonmagic/pseuds/freakydeakymoonmagic
Summary: Beth ascends the world stage.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Series: Cold, Cold City [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107377
Comments: 53
Kudos: 148





	1. Shaded

**Author's Note:**

> Just kidding! But for real, this story will be much slower going so don't @ me. Here's looking forward to the ride, choo choo!

The fuck of it all, she thinks to herself, is that chess is why they can be in the same place on this vast globe and also exactly why they shouldn’t spend time together. When they can be together and least ought to.

_”Come to Canterbury with me,”_ she commands. 

It’s a sunny day, cotton ball clouds adorning the bluebird sky. The chess festival starts tomorrow and the drive isn’t too long. The KGB goons look to be in a good mood where they lean against the side of the inn as Beth and Vasya enjoy a post-breakfast smoke. Things are looking up.

Vasya doesn’t glance at the agents as he puts out his cigarette and asks when.

_”After the tournament.”_

_”No.”_ he says. _”We already bought return tickets. But today perhaps . . .”_

She lights another, curls a hand around the lighter to block the wind. “I think I can fit you in,” she says around it, cigarette bouncing up and down on each syllable.

He heads the ten feet over to confer with the agents, to - she doesn’t fucking know and feels sure she’s not supposed to ask. Let them know they’re going on a day trip? Ask permission? It’s fucked. She wraps an arm around her belly and perches an elbow on the side, flicks off some ash. Wishes she had a drink.

But, if she has to settle, she’ll settle for getting drunk on the sun.

They take a car to Canterbury, a black beetle of a thing that must be rented because there are no little signs of life inside the cab. One of the agents drives. Beth and Vasya sit in the back with the windows cracked, smoking. Vasya has his hand on her knee, yellow sundress pulled back enough from sitting to expose it. They’re sitting close together, tapping ash out the window as needed. She wraps a hand around his elbow.

The road winds and turns, sunlight moving across the floorboards. They stop for gas. She pops into the roadway station for a coke. They have that here, right? Coke is everywhere. They had it in Mexico.

They do have coke, and on an impulse she buys three and uses the station worker’s bottle opener to pry the tops off.

She walks the open bottles back to the car and leans into the front passenger side window to hand two to the agent sitting there. They’ve switched drivers. She still doesn’t know their names. Beth will call this one Boris.

Boris looks confused. 

“Bottom’s up, boys.” She rounds the car back to her side, slides in. Vasya looks at her in askance and she shrugs. “You don’t seem like a soda kind of guy. Too sweet.”

They pull out onto the road and head northeast. The driver - she dubs him Ivan - sips his coke like he thinks it’s poisoned but he’s thirsty so he’s taking the leap.

The town itself, as they pull in and begin to really see things, is lovely. Particularly with the clear-sky weather, the shopfronts and houses and cottages having a charmingly aged quality to them with different generations of architecture nestled together comfortably.

There are winter-hearty flowers gently swaying in the light breeze, dappled shadows under the evergreens, and a castle-like building growing larger the closer they creep with midday traffic. Ivan parks and hangs back as they climb out. Beth says, “C’mon, let’s go see the sights.”

Ye olde cobblestone streets are tricky even in kitten heels and she holds onto Vasya’s arm for balance, which she wishes was just her putting the moves on him but is actually a genuine necessity. As they get closer to the castle, they pass a tudor-style storefront and she sees shoes in the window. They’re cute. Her head turns to follow them as they walk by. Vasya notices. 

_”See something you like?”_ Again, she wishes it were a line. 

_”I’m fine,”_ she flaps a hand dismissively. He looks at her and then walks them into the store.

A store attendant comes up to them and Vasya points to the sharp-toed flats in the window and lets her know that “We will take those.” They don’t even know if they’re comfortable . . . but by golly do they look comfortable.

“What size would you like?”

They both turn to Beth. “Seven, please.”

At the cash register, Beth tugs out her wallet and is stalled by Vasya pulling his out faster. He’s forking over British bills before she can stop him and by the point she’s about to argue, the store attendant is already handing him the change.

Beth takes the flat shopping bag, holds it close, and narrows her eyes at Vasya. She brings it over to a leather bench in the store and sits down to peel off her own shoes. Out of the box, the sharp-toed flats are quite tasteful. She weighs them in hand and looks up at him. _”I could have paid for these, you know,”_ she does her best to say, feeling rather rusty. And for the given value of ‘could have,’ being that she’s still pretty broke, prize money all going to paying back Jolene and keeping up payments on the house, groceries. And getting here.

_”I know,”_ he says, tucking a hand into one pocket, looking very debonair indeed. Beth sighs. Slips the shoes on. God, that feels good. That new-shoe feeling. She hasn’t gone shopping in months. And they’re as comfortable as they looked.

“Alright, okay, how do I look?” she asks, giving him a slow spin.

_”Beautiful,”_ he says with a straight face. She waits for a follow-up but it doesn’t come.

“Um, thank you.” She leans down to put her heels in the new shoe box and tuck that into the shopping bag. Beth collects her purse and rises, ready to go. Vasya’s still watching her. She nods her head to the door and leads him out.

Boris is propped up against a unlit street lantern in the bright sunlight. He tails them as they waltz towards the small castle-looking structure with its rounded turrets and grey stone walls, Union Jack flying up top. They cross a bridge over a lazy river to get there. Flowers line the waterfront and Beth is taken in by the dip and bob of the nodding flowers, the happy riot of color. They walk the short halls of the building and it comes to mind that this is more of a guard tower type thing than a castle, turrets aside. And she thinks privately that while this is nice, it isn’t big enough to be a cathedral.

They head outside to be confronted with a massive cathedral rising out of the earth with decorative spires, towering windows, and saints carved into the sides.

“Wow,” she says and feels Vasya’s pleasure from beside her, either in the sight itself or taking enjoyment out of her own.

The old stone of the church is greyed and nearly yellowed with time, striking in its majesty. She wants to touch it, so she strides to the church front and does. “It’s so old. We don’t have old stuff like this in America.” Beth turns around and says, _”This is probably the oldest thing I’ve ever touched.”_ _Other than you,_ she adds mentally.

Vasya’s looking at her like she’s an oddity but he likes her in spite of it. They circle the cathedral, taking in vastness and aching detail of it. It takes a long time to do. “Yep, she’s a grand old lady,” Beth mumbles to herself and whistles. 

He has the air of a man humoring a crazy lady as he follows her into the dark enclosure of the church, the cavernous space above seeming to hang on empty air. The cathedral is tall enough to seem to have its own miniature atmosphere. 

Great white arches leap into the open space to form the ceiling, stained glass windows tucked in every available crevice to bring in more light. They wander down to the pulpit. Boris appears to be lingering by the entrance. Beth senses opportunity.

“C’mon,” Beth tugs Vasya up the stairs, past the choir section and pulpit and altar, towards the very back of the church. She hides him behind a pillar, drops the shopping bag, and tucks herself right up against him. He’s got a knowing look in his eye and something pulls back at the corner of a mouth - ah yes, that’s a grin. Beth kisses it right off of his face before it can fully form. Drags his face down to meet hers, presses her chest into his. She moves her mouth temptingly until his opens, then tangles tongues with him. He’s wrapping hands around her back, pulling her closer, closer until they can’t get any closer. She feels more than hears a deep vibration of a sound from him, a groan she thinks. Such an undignified sound from such a composed man. She deserves a goddamn medal.

Beth is being bent back by the angle of their liplock, chest arched by the push of his hands, and loves it. Their mouths make a wet sound and she gets a little embarrassed by it. Vasya hand runs up the side of her dress, thumbing the side of her breast. She breaks their mouths apart with a gasp. She tries to get her breath back and makes eye contact with Vasya. They’re going to have to scrub hard to get all that lipstick off.

She hits his chest playfully with the back of her hand. “You’re always kissing me in churches, you damn heathen.” Beth smiles at him. He’s smiling too. Vasya grumbles something in Russian, probably something like ‘you’re a terror’ or ‘that’s rich,’ but he still has that happy bend to his mouth so really it doesn’t matter.

They wander the cathedral some more, find some tombs, maybe sneak another furtive moment or two. Vasya’s pocket square is a lost cause. As they exit, she shrugs a small shrug at Boris. _You wouldn’t be able to help yourself, either._


	2. Gripped

They pull into the driveway of the inn and have to circle around to find parking space. She hopes she isn’t much noticed climbing out of the cab and waves the group on without her with the excuse of lighting up a cigarette. _”Go on without me.”_ They all know she’s trying to publicly distance herself and they all know it won’t work. But it’s worth a try nonetheless. A lot of competitors will have arrived in town by now and a lot of them to the cozy inn with good recommendations nearby the chess festival hall.

The men leave for the inn and Beth smokes her cigarette, contemplates the fading sunlight, watches or imagines the sun crawl that little bit closer to the horizon.

“Harmon? Elizabeth Harmon?” A couple of teenage boys are peering at her face, seemingly starstruck.

“Yes?”

“Oh my god, of course you’re here,” one of them is saying, “It’s the chess festival, but - just - _wow._ Could you, that is, would you be willing to sign something?” The British accent is unfamiliar, but the question increasingly familiar.

“Sure, of course.” A pen and spiral noteboard are shoved summarily into her hands and she signs twice so they can each have their own. They gush and thank her and it’s all very flattering. Her cigarette has dwindled down to nothing. “Nice to meet you too. Keep playing, boys.”

Beth makes her way to the inn and sits for late tea. She studies her slim Russian phrasebook under the table and enjoys some assorted cookies. To keep her language skills sharp, she’s going to have to practice as much as possible while she’s here without, say, calling too much attention to it.

She retires to her room and strips to take a bath. The new shoes go next to the other two pairs she packed in the bottom of the antique wardrobe. It gives her a warm, cheery feeling, looking at them. He really didn’t need to buy them.

Running the bath with some complimentary salts, Beth dips into the bath and soaks until she’s pink through and through. Through the bathroom door, she thinks she hears the dull thud of a knock on the hotel door. She stills and waits to hear it again and does. Well, she was just about done anyhow. Beth pulls to the stopper up from the drain and carefully cranes herself out of the tub. She wraps herself in a towel, then her peach silk robe over that. She peeps through the peephole. It’s Vasya. Beth yanks the door open and drags him inside, quick as a snake.

 _”Don’t you know how it looks, you standing outside my door?”_ she implores, giving his arm a little shake. 

_”I know, but -”_

“But what? Nothing. Your reputation isn’t on the line like mine is. No one’s going to think you slept your way to victory, what was it, ‘like all women’-”

 _”No, they’ll just think I let you win because I couldn’t ---------- pants.”_ She blinks. That was unexpected. And she supposes - _supposes_ \- that in terms of safety and standing in his home country, he may have even more to lose than her. But winning is everything and to have it cheapened would be unacceptable. She knows they can do . . . whatever it is they’re doing and still compete with integrity, but others don’t.

 _“Then why are you here?”_ She puts a hand to his cheek, cooler than her, still hot from the bath.

 _“I wanted to ask you to dinner.”_

_”You couldn’t have called?”_

_”The rooms don’t have phones.”_

Looking at the nightstand, sure enough they don’t.

Beth sighs, _”Okay, come on.”_ She sits him on the bed and stays standing for a moment. Realizes how close they are, how dangerous it is to be. She checks to see the curtains are closed, the door closed and locked. Beth takes a step back, sits close to him and lays a hand on his arm. “Yes, I want to have dinner with you.”

Vasya inhales to reply and she presses the tips of her fingers to his mouth to silence him. “But should I have dinner with you? That’s the fucking question Vasya.” She sighs. “I don’t want . . . if I win, I don’t want it in question that I earned it. Hastings is swarming with the kind of people who’d care. Players. Even last night was probably a bad idea.” Only international players would have put up the money to get here a day early to sleep off the jetlag, so probably there were fewer eyes. And this isn’t just a Hastings problem.

He pulls her hand down, sandwiches it between his own, runs a thumb along the side of it. “I don’t want questions for you either.”

“But I want to. Have dinner.”

“I want to as well.”

“What do we do?”

Vasya gazes down at their hands, twines their fingers together and says those two magic words: “Room service.”

She shakes her head, runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “They were right. You really are a genius.”

They fill out a short menu card left on the room’s desk. The innkeeper explained at check in that attendants come around regularly to check for requests like a room cleaning, fresh towels, or, in their case, roast chicken. Beth darts a hand out to place the folded card in front of the door before swiftly shutting the door and turning the lock again. Vasya’s sat back on his hands, taking her in. She takes herself in, too. Realizes for the first time that she’s had this whole conversation in a towel and robe. She’s honestly lucky it hasn’t come loose. Beth supposes she should be embarrassed, but perches a hand on her hip and parrots, _”See something you like?”_

Vasya holds a hand out to her. “Yes.”

She steps closer. “Oh? What do you like?”

He reels her in with the palm she lays on his, pulls her close enough to nose through the ends of her drying hair, the movement circulating the smell of floral shampoo in a little cloud around them. “Everything.”

Beth huffs a little at him, in good humor. “You can’t like everything.”

_”But I do.”_

_”Well then. I like everything about you, too.”_ He gives her a close-mouthed smile, spreads a hand over her stomach, the gesture almost possessive. _”Then we’re agreed.”_

 _”Yes, we’re both perfect.”_ It’s fun to need to lean down to press her mouth to his instead of the other way around. It’s all very alluring. The warmth of him, of sharing air, the rub of his bristly five o’clock shadow. He even smells good. She makes a noise, unexpectedly. Beth pushes him back a little farther, tilts his head back so their mouths can slot together pleasingly. Vasya cups a hand around the back of her thigh and lets her. She skitters her hand across the back of his scalp, waxy hair gel slicking the motion.

Beth tries not to fist a hand in his hair, but when Vasya slips along the silk to trace the strangely sensitive curve of her buttock, she does it out of sheer surprise. He must be an ass man, explains the lack of chest-staring. Every man stares at something.

He seems to like it, the hand in his hair. She says as much. His only reply is to trace her face with his eyes and say _“I said I like everything.”_

She can’t not seal their mouths back together, push him back further on to the bed so she can perch on one side of his lap comfortably. Sitting on his leg puts them at a height. He has to spread his legs to accommodate and it’s a good look on him, the most casual he has ever been. 

Beth presses a hand to his neck, pulls him back in for more. Her hand lingers on his pectoral, the other arm wrapped around his shoulders for balance. It’s the sensory aspect of kissing that heightens other sensations, damp hair curling as it dries and brushes against her shoulder. The scrubby texture of the towel as it shifts when she shifts. The crinkling of the sheets. She’s exactly where she wants to be.

Vasya settles a hand on her hip and seems content to keep it there. He’s breathing through his nose, she can feel the little puffs of air against her face. God, he’s so chivalrous. It should be exhausting, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever tire. 

Grabbing his hand, she drags it up to cover her breast as they kiss. Beth yanks the robe and towel down around her breast to give him full access. She waits a beat, then squeezes it for him. She groans into his mouth at what she’s doing to herself, squeezes again. He must be thinking American women are absolutely wanton and in her case, he’s not totally off-base. She doesn’t care. 

He moves to pinch with his fingers instead and she makes a high little sound she doesn’t think she’s ever made before. Vasya pinches harder. The lack of blood flow is highly pleasurable and she covers his hand again to slip behind his fingers to make them rub together, turning her nipple over in the hold. Beth might whine a bit, she’s not really sure. All she knows is one minute it feels like they’re kissing and the next it feels like they’re doing something entirely different. He follows her lead and keeps tight hold with his shifting fingers.

She wants to give him a love bite so bad. It would be a bad look for the tournament. She tries to unbutton him around the hand latched onto her breast. Beth angles his shirt and suit collar out of the way, brushes a long kiss down his throat brusquely, finds a promising spot at the join of his neck and shoulder where the suit will hide it. His skin has nice give to it. Beth plants her mouth and sucks, softly at first, then harder until it nearly becomes an actual bite. Vasya rubs his fingers together again and she jolts. Cups a hand around his neck and keeps sucking. She feels like Nosferatu. She wants this thing to last. 

Beth presses her mouth affectionately on the final results, a bright red circle shiny with saliva. “There.” She pats the spot. _”Now you belong to me.”_ She’s fairly confident Vasya knows she’s perfectly serious and totally full of it. Beth leans back to admire her work and offer him a self-satisfied look. He pulls the fingers still pinching her nipple further out until they finally slip off with a final tight pinch, gives her a hot jolt, and her breast aches beautifully from the stimulation. She didn’t know it could feel that way. Beth stares down at it in surprise. “Wow.” Vasya smiles that close-lipped smile again, leans forward looking like has getting his mouth on it in mind, and then room service knocks.


	3. Demarcated

They eat their chicken in peace. Beth asks the server to leave the chicken outside and once she hears footsteps lead away, she pulls the cart in hastily and hands it off to Vasya. Beth goes to the bathroom to slip the towel off and re-wrap the robe, adding nothing else. She doesn’t fiddle with her hair, doesn’t moisturize, doesn’t do anything. He’ll see what he’ll see.

Beth curls up on the bed, Vasya in the chair by the window with the low food cart in between. They chat as they dine.

“So how’s Moscow? You doing alright in that big empty apartment?”

“It’s good. It’s not empty, I live there. And your house?”

“Touché.” She chews for a minute. “How do you know I live in a house by myself?” Vasya’s caught cold by that and freezes up a bit. He has her street address and there’s no apartment number, but the implication is that he knew she lived there alone. He could deny it but instead turns large eyes on her. She pats his leg from across the divide between bed and chair. “It’s okay. You know a lot about me. It’s not a bad thing. I’m not much of a sharer so this spares me some work.” She pauses to take a drink of water. “The house is good, I redecorated recently.”

“I see.” He has a lingering air of almost-sheepishness to him, which is an odd look. She pats his leg again and switches the topic.

“What do you do for fun in Moscow, Vasya?”

“I read. Sometimes I fish, if the season is correct.”

“Right, your old library haunt. Where do you fish, when you can?” Vasya describes sprawling rivers with silvery fish hiding beneath the choppy surface, great trees leaning over the sides to get a better look. Not in as many words of course, but in the picture that he paints, this is what Beth sees. “Ice fishing?” 

He shakes his head as if to say ‘I like fishing, but I’m not a crazy person.’ “Yeah, I’ve never done it either.”

“What is the expression? Once was enough for me.” She laughs and exudes appreciation for his effort. _“What do you do?”_

_“For fun? Oh I . . .”_ There’s really only one honest answer. _“Shop, mostly.”_ It’s quiet for a moment. “Um.”

Vasya covers her hand on the bed. _“Tell me more, Beth.”_

She exhales. _“I just. I like things. And sometimes I buy them.”_

“That’s a good thing, then.” She peeks an eye at him. _”It is?”_

_“That you get what you want.”_ Her shoulders fall as they relax a little. “Oh.” He has a pacific expression on his face. She changes subjects again.

“I bet you spend a lot of time just playing chess against guys like Luchenko. I only have books and my head to play against. Lucky dog.”

Vasya seems to shrug. “This is the way it has been for some time.”

“What, Russians being all the best players and playing each other until they’re even better players?” Vasya nods.

“Hmm.”

It’s probably not smart to discuss competing in any greater detail than that. Beth is a genius; she never claimed to be smart; she skipped over smart to be brilliant instead. But she’s learning to be both.

The day is starting to wind down and she wants to spend more time with him even though they’re both getting talked out. Their ritual has been to read together when the silence sits comfortably and the hours draw long, but thinking back to what she packed . . . she doesn’t want to share her theory books with him, not this close to playing him. Beth doesn’t want to have to second-guess a single minute of this. There’s the phrasebook, and - oh boy. She knows what he might like to read. This is humiliating. “So . . .” she pads over to the suitcase on its stand. _”If you’d like to relax and read with me . . .”_

_“I would.”_

She sifts through the five titles she brought with her, all chess except for _South American Aviaries of the Wild: A Journey Across Jungle, Mountain, and Sea._ She holds it up.

Beth just wanted to tune in a little, hadn’t thought ahead for once. Bought it in English to read along a bit. She hasn’t even started it yet. None of that seems to factor in. Vasya seems absolutely charmed. His eyes light up and affection brews between them in the room like a stirring cauldron. Maybe he just really likes birds. 

He stands to fold her into his arms, press a kiss to the top of her head and slip the book out of her grasp. _”I’d love to.”_

They read side by side in bed again and it’s like she never left Moscow. It’s really just like that modern hotel room at the Mockba except for the fact of it being a country inn in south coastal England. The mood is the same. The rhythm of his breathing as she curls against him and rests her book on his chest in a way that has to be blocking his view of his own. He is uncomplaining, unbuttoned. He even took off his suit jacket. He’s like a big warm animal past the cotton confines of his shirt. An arm curled around her, fingers petting at her silk-covered side.

When it gets late and they need to turn in and Vasya gets that woeful air like ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ or some shit, she asks him to stay. He doesn’t deny her, pulls off his dress shirt and leaves on the undershirt underneath. His hands pause at his belt buckle and he glances at her. Asking permission?

“Vasya, why are you so shy about taking off your clothes?”

He looks away. “My wife - my ex-wife - she went through things as a child and I learned caution.” Oh. That’s horrible. It also paints an interesting picture of their marriage. Beth is having a weird mix of emotions and to be frank, she isn’t used to having more than one at a time.

“Feel free to be as naked as you want with me. Anytime. You have a carte blanc.” His eyes warm through at the open invitation. “Very well.” He drops trow, removes his sock braces but leaves his socks on as he slips into bed. She sets the alarm for half past five, scoots close to him, and conks out.

The alarm goes off at 5:30 and she’s dragged out of sleep rudely by it. Vasya’s curled around her, spooned behind and holding her close. “Wake up, sleepy head.” She shoves at his shoulder. “Time to get up.” Vasya shakes his head and mumbles. Deep sleeper. Huh.

She turns over under his arm and strokes his cheek. _”Vasya, it’s time to wake up.”_ She presses her lips lingeringly on his cheek. _”Out of bed, now.”_ His eyelids flutter at last and he raises his head muzzily. _”It’s morning?”_

_”Already, so soon, I know.”_ Beth finds herself crooning at him. There’s this whole new side to him and now here it is.

Vasya drops his head to the pillow with a low groan. His hair is sticking up everywhere from leaving in his hair gel. She laughs at him. 

“You’ve gotta get out of here before the whole town thinks I screwed you just to win, which.” She never finishes. She almost said ‘I plan to do both.’

Beth pushes him out of bed and boots him into the bathroom to fix his hair and splash his face with cold water or whatever it is he does to snap out of being groggy. The faucet runs and there are some quiet self-grooming sounds. He’s probably ruining her comb in there. Vasya comes back out to pull his clothes on. She’s able to take in his full form in the half-light half-dark of the room. The hair on his legs, sleepy slope of his shoulders, the broad set of him. The beginnings of early morning light gently highlight the slight dent on his chin.

He brushes his suit jacket down, buttons it, and rounds the bed to her side. Vasya leans down to brush his mouth against hers, then again on her forehead. He looks like he wants to sit down and keep going, but knows better. Good. “Good morning,” he says.

_”Good morning, Vasya.”_

“I’ll see you at the festival.”

_”That you will.”_ She pulls him in for one last press of their mouths together. It might be the last she gets for a while. _”When can you come back?”_ It’s her way of asking whether he’s comfortable continuing to spend time while they compete. Vasya sits back, resting his weight on a hand.

_”Perhaps until we’re set to compete. What do you think?”_ The round robin schedule will be announced today.

_”I think it sounds smart. Only the days we don’t play each other, then.”_

_”Sound.”_

_”Well, we’re both smart, so.”_

_”I think the festival will -------- the evidence, yes.”_

“Well, away with you, Mr. Smart man. You have chess to play and a body to shower.” He leaves with smiling eyes and her very heart held in his hands and he doesn’t even know it.


	4. Subsumed

The tournament schedule sits on a fancy board in the festival hall, an antique feel to the place with players milling about emitting a low buzz of excitement. The matchups are random. 

She surveys the board. She and Vasya are matched up for tomorrow, once the premier event begins and each top player will compete against the other nine players once each, forty-nine games total. It’ll take the full week to wrap up all the games, with at least a third ending in a draw in order for players to rack up enough points to win the tournament and avoid losses. Each game won counts for one point and each draw is a half point. It’s unlike the elimination style they’d done in Moscow where she couldn’t make any mistakes. The last round robin she’d played was in the U.S. Championship when she’d wiped the floor with Benny and even then she’d taken her fair share of draws to pull ahead before that final match.

This is hardly the U.S. Open and she’ll need to be strategic about how she uses draws in order to play Vasya more than once. Historically, Beth has felt and perhaps acted like she’s a little above them. But in a tournament like this one, the goal is to win the most points, not necessarily win the most games.

The locals and other up and comers get to play first in the challengers section and she might dip in and watch a few to warm up mentally. She hasn’t decided yet, hasn’t played anyone in a month and could use the stimulation.

It wouldn’t be smart to spend the day with Vasya again if they’re going to be playing each other tomorrow. So soon. Vasya gets input of course, but really it probably isn’t a bright idea. They’re still adjusting to this. And they’d only discussed remaining separate the day of. But realistically, in a round robin tournament, there’s only one day they’ll be playing each other. Maybe they can do evenings together the four days they don’t play each other? She’ll need to slip a note under his door. Without phones, it’s the best way to communicate with any subtlety she can think of. Unless they come up with a signal, she thinks wryly. Maybe Mr. State Department was on to something.

Beth watches a few warm up games after the opening ceremony. She can feel eyes on the side of her face coming from a lot of different directions. It’s perhaps unusual to be famous for playing chess, not normally celebrity criteria. Players are naturally curious whether the game play holds up to the reputation, if there’s actual skill underneath the glitz. She’s not worried about it. But it is weird to feel so observed. Watched.

She catches three games, then gets bored, as anticipated. Beth shakes everyone’s hand who asks of course, and gives each board her attention, but gets restless and leaves the tournament hall to get some fresh air. Walking around the town a little, she takes in the tidy brick-and-stone houses and small mom and pop stores. Grabs a late lunch at a sandwich joint, eats at the counter. She asks for a pen and writes ‘yours at 8?’ on the blank backside of the receipt, British coin clinking on the formica.

The waterfront is nice and she walks along it for a while, thinking few thoughts. Beth heads back to the tournament hall. It’s definitely one of the larger events she’s ever been to, people everywhere. It’s also the most international. There are people from all over the world, unfamiliar faces and voices and clothing, even though it’s mostly still white men. The format of the competition is different from how she’s typically played since the state championship, forty simultaneous games packed under one roof. There’s a lot happening at once. Beth wonders if she can spy the winner in advance. He’ll be invited to the premier event next year, the one she’s competing in now. Might be useful to know. Her first matchup tomorrow before Vasya is with Larry Laphroaig, last year’s winner. She knows nothing about him. Historically, she hasn’t cared to know. It hadn’t felt like it made a difference, before. She’ll win and that’s that. Preparing for years to beat Vasya taught her differently. She was able to topple him by knowing his style, his habits and scant weaknesses. And while no other player merits that level of study, it wouldn’t hurt to pay a little more attention now that she’s competing at a new level.

It wouldn’t do to be beat out by some young upstart exactly like herself.

Beth returns to her room to pick up a book and hikes up an extra two flights of stairs to pass by Vasya’s room and slip the note under his door. She relaxes in the inn’s sitting room with some chess theory in hand. She passes the evening in study and feels prepared for tomorrow.

At eight sharp, she knocks very quietly on Vasya’s door. It opens immediately and she steps inside.

“Hey.”

The corner of Vasya’s mouth twitches like it wants to smile but doesn’t think it’s justified.

She tugs him in for a kiss after the door closes behind them. It turns slick very quickly, hot where their mouths meet, where his chest presses flat against hers, where his hands move in sly patterns.

They take it to the bed.

He lays her out on the mattress and climbs on top. Tongues are sliding together, she’s rubbing his back in long strokes, feeling the dormant strength coiled there.

The hot pull in her gut asks for more.

Beth pulls her mouth away to come up for air and pushes on his shoulders to shift him lower down on her body and scoot herself further up the bed without explicitly asking for what she wants. She hopes he’ll know, but he doesn’t.

 _”What is it you want me to do?”_ She tries to push his head down, gently. The urgency is setting in. _”I want you down there.”_ She gestures.

Vasya looks confused. _”To do . . . what?”_

Oh for Christ’s sake. _”To suck, Vasya.”_ Jiminy Christmas.

He’s tilting his head and saying, _”We don’t really do that,”_ and Beth asks, _”Would you like to?”_ Vasya seems to shrug and think ‘why not?’ She smiles and says she’s sure he’ll do great. Beth hikes up her dress and yanks off her underwear while he stands to peel himself out of his suit and all the layers hiding underneath, then sits back down. She splays herself open with two fingers and rubs herself exactly where most needs it with her other hand, displays how she most likes to be touched for him. He looks both mesmerized and confused again. Perhaps this is not normal sexual behavior, like, culturally.

 _”Everything okay, Vasya?”_ She can’t stop saying his name, it feels so good in her mouth. 

Now he seems even more bewildered by the question. _”Yes.”_ If his head tilts any further, his neck is going to crack and it’s going to fall off. _”Because you look confused.”_ Beth continues to work her clit over.

_”Ah, you’re very . . . direct.”_

_”Bad?”_

_”Far from it.”_ He rises to the challenge a little, settles down on his forearms close to where her fingers are working. Vasya pulls them away and takes a lick. Takes a moment to consider the taste and goes back in. She gets a hand on the back of his head, cups him closer. He flicks his tongue once, perhaps by accident, and her breath hitches on a gasp. He glances up at her and does it again.

Vasya . . . gets into it. And appears to genuinely enjoy himself, from Beth’s admittedly biased perspective. He’s even bobbing his head a little, unnecessary but the effort and enthusiasm is much to be admired. Then he tries sucking and releases the suction of his mouth with a wet smacking sound. That sound, Jesus. She watches this man on his belly for her, pleasing her, doing as she says. He’s perfect, it’s perfect. She wants to live here.

Gamely, he flicks and sucks and licks until his tongue gets tired. Beth pats his head, not demeaningly, just with gentle affection, pets down the side. _”Good job. Very good.”_ She pulls him back on top of her. _”Now fuck me.”_

This, he knows how to do. He has a leg over his shoulder and his knees on the bed before she can draw her next breath. Vasya brushes the hair out of her face before he angles himself, pops inside in a sudden stretch. Beth can’t help a moan. And then he’s moving. They fuck endlessly, he drives in over and over and the stretch and fullness and rightness of it is incredible. He’s warm, moving over her. She curls a leg around his calf, affectionate, wanting to be closer. Wanting to be kissed, fucked everywhere, swallowed whole.

Beth pets down his back, drifting her fingers up again to feel the push back of small hairs going against the grain. She’s not overwhelmed, she feels peaceful. Letting her fingertips drift down the side of his flexing arm is a quiet pleasure. The pleasure of all of it plateaus and she’s coasting beautifully, body relaxed and pliant. Vasya grunts with effort, an ugly noise from a lovely man, and braces forward on a forearm to free up a hand. He reaches down to rub roughly at her clit and then she’s lit on fire. He jacks her hard, fingers moving faster as he pants above her and keeps moving inside. Beth can feel from her throat that she’s making noises, but has no idea what they might be. His fingers move, harder and faster. She’s coming and it feels like coming home.

Vasya seems affected by all the clenching and so on, hitting deeper inside her until his hips slapping her skin with a light smack as he thrusts. He sits up to kneel, drag her right into his lap, hold onto her hips and move her where he wants. Vasya yanks her closer and thrusts deep enough that when he comes it feels like this will never leave her, like her body has been altered.

He stoops over her, panting and sweaty. He looks like he just ran a marathon. It’s sweet; she tugs him down to lay, goes to the bathroom, gets him a washcloth and runs it under the cold tap. Beth dabs at his forehead and cheeks with it. Vasya seems vaguely embarrassed but too winded to entertain it as he takes the washcloth and swipes it across his neck and shoulders. He reaches out a hand to her, where she’s still standing on the far side of the bed. This is normally the part where she rolls over and pretends to be asleep. Beth crawls into bed and curls into his side, stretching an arm over his middle.

They rest and breathe and at length, slip into sleep.


	5. Toppled

The morning’s a rude awakening. Nobody set the alarm clock and they’re both nearly late for their game, which works both for them and against them in that nobody looks bad per se, but it is unusual behavior on Vasya's part and they have to be careful not to arrive at the same time. Beth genteely offers to hang back two minutes and Vasya doesn’t say no, which pleases her. Time management is more important to him, he’s a details man, and she’s happy to be able to provide for him.

She arrives in the festival hall with the click of cameras shuttering and excited young and old faces upturned towards her like sunflowers bobbing their heads. Beth has a pastel lavender dress on, matching jacket hanging off her shoulders with the sleeves starched enough to hold their own shape. She sweeps in minutes before the game is set to begin, goes to the refreshment table to fetch some water to hydrate her brain and avoid sitting across from Vasya until she has to. She’ll think too much about last night. Beth sits at nine sharp.

Vasya beats her. Forty-five fucking games in the whole premier event and they play each other the first fucking game and she fucking loses, like a loser.

It happens like this: Vasya opens with knight to F6 and nonsensically she thinks ‘I’ve got him now.’

She does not have him.

Her pawns and his knights bandy about in the middle of the board. She’s rolling out the Alekhine defense with a four pawns attack. Both their bishops come out to play and she castles, begins to feel secure. He castles, too. They move quietly at their respective ends of the board, not shying away from anything, just positioning carefully.

Vasya checks her with his knight and as her rook gobbles it down, disquiet begins to settle in low in her belly. That wasn’t the move she expected him to make. She gets the feeling she just ate bait. He moves aggressively with his bishops to counter, regain lost ground. It’s working. It is and is not like Mexico City. She knows this is recoverable, pauses in her moves to consider carefully. Beth is no longer that child swallowed up by the intimidation of Borgov’s reputation. She can do this.

Both their kings are hiding, tucked into the corners of the board. She can use that, trap him in where there’s no wiggle room. Borgov moves his rook to check her again before she can capitalize on it. Beth edges her king away from danger and his bishop pursues, backed by his rook. Moving her queen one square over to rest by her poor king completes the pin, as his knight falls into its final resting place. She’s so bombshelled, she didn’t even realize how much she was focusing on his moves instead of her own. She played well, is the thing. She made few mistakes, maybe two at the most. She was sober, calm, and composed. And she still lost to this living, breathing embodiment of excellence in the sport of chess. Beth looks up at him. Is this Paris or is it Hastings? A picturesque vacation on the coast or the fiery gut of hell?

It’s a round robin event, on day one. If he loses a game or has too many draws, she could still pull ahead. But neither of them are inclined to draws; winners take all and neither of them know how to share. And he wins a lot. The worst part is it’s somehow still a surprise. She shakes his hand, warm and dry and newly familiar, and knows the tournament is over from the start as she meets his unreadable eyes.

Beth can’t make heads or tails of the expression on his face, can’t tell what expression she’s making her own self.

She thought she was better, thought she had him, thought she was past this. The losing. Beth does herself the service of not crying this time. She shakes his hand again as they stand, completely blank faced as the cameras flash. Nods to him and the crowd and walks away, brushes past Ivan and Boris playing prison guard at the entryway.

Beth walks back to the inn in a total daze, wobbly on her heels, only to find herself at the waterfront instead. It’s a clear day, too pretty to justify the doom happening inside her head. She watches the waterfowl Vasya is so fascinated by wheel away in the sky.

At least he didn’t open with the Sicilian. That would have been mocking her. He’s done nothing wrong and she wants to punch him in the face. The inimitable, untouchable Russian. But they’ve gone to a place where she can’t, where she loves winning more than anything but suddenly has another interest. He occupies a space in her life that butts directly into her professional aspirations, her identity as an uninterrupted and unopposed winner.

The winter wind bites at her face and she can feel her eyes burning, a warning.

She puts one foot in front of the other and heads directly for the inn feeling totally numb. She climbs the stairs to her room, closes and bolts the door, takes off her shoes and coat. Beth lays face down in bed and screams into the pillow. It’s a sickly mix of rage and self-recrimination, shame and guilt. 

At length, Beth comes up for air. Her makeup is smudged all over the pillow. When she next looks in the mirror, she knows she’ll see a clown face staring back at her, which only feels appropriate. She’s a fool. Torn between questioning why she thought she could beat him and why she didn’t pull it off when she knows she can.

The fact is, he brought a better game. Today, at least. And she brought a better one in Moscow.

If this is going to work, she’s going to need to learn to manage this shit because the damn fact of it is, she’s been operating under the assumption that she would keep winning and this wouldn’t really come up. She never thought about losing, never does. Now that she’s climbed the mountain, there’s no lands left to conquer, right? Wrong. It’s the wrong metaphor.

This is something else.

All she knows how to do is win and she isn’t interested in learning how to lose, not to anyone, not even him. But she wants to keep playing, better and better challengers and that may mean she meets her match some days, doesn’t win all the time. Yet. The thought hurts, physically.

The fact is, she may have to learn how to take it gracefully. If it’s going to keep happening. Which she abhors the idea of planning on but seems like the reality of the situation. Neither of them are smug people. It’s helped by the fact that Vasya seemed radiant when he lost in his hometown, absolutely delighted to be faced with a real challenge. So it’s really only a her problem and that minimizes the amount of change that needs to be made.

Maybe they can stay apart for a day or two after a loss? Which won’t be an issue at the end of tournaments, except the last night in town would be the last day they can be together. So maybe during tournaments they spend a little time apart before and after games and on the last night they kiss and make up. Beth realizes she’s actually feeling quite a bit calmer, head facing sideways on the pillow, staring at the wall. And afterall, losing only made her swing harder the next time. Sometimes people are going to be better than her. Sometimes _Vasya_ is going to best her. It will force her to improve - and if not win then, win the next time.

As she lays there, she dully processes that she’s shocked she hadn’t scooped herself directly into the nearest pub or tried to find out how loose restrictions are on tranquilizers in your standard British pharmacy. Shocked.

It’s progress.


	6. Rebutted

Beth scrubs off her clown face and slaps on a fresh face in time for her afternoon match. She almost fell into a trance-like doze in the middle of the day, laying in her bed and contemplating the meaning of existence. She’s out the door and dropping into her seat right at four, no extra time to worry about the person across from her. To be honest, she’s not even sure of who she’s playing, a massive error in judgement to focus wholly on the game with Vasya. It’s Neculai Vulpe. Romanian, mid thirties, world-renowned. She can take him.

She eats up his pieces quickly at the beginning, then the game slows down. They’re taking time between moves, carefully evaluating. The queen's gambit is declined, orthodox defense, classical variation. Her queen is out, and then his is too.

Vulpe’s playing defense now and she’s beginning to circle him like a hungry tiger. Then he moves unexpectedly, pawn knocking out her bishop and leaving the king in the corner rather vulnerable. Their rooks are laid out in a tidy row on his side of the board and consume each other in quick succession. Both kings come out to play and as she anticipated six moves earlier, each of them are left with one rook each and only pawns littering the rest of the field. Vulpe boots three of her pawns off the board one after the other, but she has him in her sights now. 

Endgames are not her strong suit, but she’s been studying in place of being able to play and that’s given her a stronger grounding in theory. They both have three pawns and a rook, that’s it. They’re on move forty-six. It’s all down to placement now. It’s always down to placement really, but in this situation it’s everything. Neither of them are close enough to queen a pawn. They shift cautiously in tight circles, kings close and pawns clustered around them.

His fatal move: he moves his king to the edge of the board, puts his back against the wall. It looks like Vulpe is trying to sneak his pawn across to queen it while she’s distracted, but Beth doesn’t get distracted. She positions her pawn just so and like that, the game is effectively over. Vulpe looks as stunned as she felt this morning. She sits for a moment to let him take in the board, then he resigns. Beth reaches over for a handshake. Vulpe shakes her hand and stands to bow over it without a kiss, which feels appropriate.

Beth does not visit Vasya that night, nor he her. She knows she needs to cool off but also wants and needs to avoid icing him out entirely. Dinner down at the pub, no beer or stout or any other such tasty beverage. She sticks staunchly to water. It’s hard. Really hard.

She rolls into bed and is out like a light. Showering in the morning is a bit off her schedule and she has to blow dry quickly to still have time for breakfast. Beth hops off to the festival hall. She’s taking on Laphroaig today, the Scottish prodigy that won the festival challenger’s section last year. He’s nineteen and still has what she believes the British call spots. He’s also very nice. His arm jerks when she approaches like he’s fighting the urge to pull out her chair for her. It should be insulting, but it’s not. So odd to think how close in age they are, when it comes down to numbers. He seems so very young. She quirks a small smile at him and says “Shall we sit?”

Things do not go well for Larry. She has fun chasing Laphroaig around the board but tries not to play with her food. The game goes thirteen moves longer than it should and she’ll need to work on that.

She plays black for the first time in the competition, uses the Sicilian defense wing gambit, deferred variation. Her queen comes out to play early, then both queens are knocked out. Her knight kills his bishop, his pawn kills her knight, his rook kills her rook, then her king kills his rook with no pause between each move. Then they play a more removed game with knights and bishops paired off and patrolling the board. Laphroaig fumbles with his knight, gets it knocked out and loses his advantage. It’s a quick feast on his pieces after that. He trapped his king in his corner and threw away the key, the bishop his last defense but quickly offed. Laphroaig is forced to resign. He sits for a moment, then seems to shake himself and shakes her hand eagerly. 

“Thanks for a great game, really,” he says in a thick Scottish brogue. “You put up a good fight,” Beth answers, feeling more on solid ground with two wins under her belt and therefore feeling more gracious. Plus, it always feels the extra bit more gratifying to win playing black.

Things are back on track. Maybe Vasya will draw a couple times, enough to pull even with her. Who knows?

Beth plays Andre Roderigo Devaca of Barcelona later in the day. Again, she catnaps in between to recharge and enters the game refreshed and feeling clear instead of drowsy. This is good to know for endurance tournaments, something to keep in her arsenal. He has a handsome mustache and endearingly professor-like glasses. Devaca has a strong tour of Spanish-speaking countries to his name and is not to be underestimated. She gets there first, gestures for Devaca to sit. Plays the Sicilian again, this time in its classical variation. Beth presses her bishops to great advantage and he can’t reclaim the lost territory after the thirtieth move. Devaca resigns with each of them having two bishops and two pawns left on the board.

She’s still replaying both games mentally hours later. Her brain is filled with chess chess chess and it’s difficult to tune back into the present even as she sits in the common room of the inn with a theory book in her lap. She’s not thinking about her ill-fated game against Vasya. So humiliating, even though that’s probably not the most productive way to think about it. Beth has a hand curled around a cup of chamomile tea and brings it closer to inhale. She thinks of Vasya.

The right move - and her life is all about the right move - is to come calling tonight. Otherwise things get weird. He’ll think she’s angry with him and not herself. She doesn’t know if this is the kind of thing capable of throwing him off his game and honestly doesn’t want to find out.

Beth knocks.


	7. Stoppered

Vasya opens the door, not without some trepidation it seems. She can’t read him at all and that’s probably protective. “Come in,” he says with a hand gesture. She stands in the middle of the room and says “Hey,” and then doesn’t know what else to say. Beth stares at the carpet, suddenly struck empty-headed by this man. She forgot how dangerous he can be.

Her hesitance makes him bold as he comes close, cups her elbow, folds her into his arms from behind. “Hello.” Arms slide into place and she should want to break out and scream at him but she doesn’t. They both brought the best game they could. That’s what matters and that’s all either of them can control. Beth lets her head hang and exhales deeply. Tries not to be frosty.

She glances at the window, makes sure the curtains are drawn.

“I’m disappointed,” she says at last. “Are you disappointed?”

“Why would I be disappointed, Beth?”

“You were so happy when I beat you and I thought I would keep beating you.”

_“That’s not the way the game is played --------. I suspect I lose far more often than you imagine. It would all be rather boring if we existed ------- unchallenged. Don’t you think?”_

Beth is bewildered. This is not the perspective she imagined a world champion would have. “I mean, I guess.”

“What is the expression? You win . . . “

She smiles against her will and huffs a single breath of amusement in spite of herself. “You win some, you lose some.”

“Ah, yes. Great wisdom.”

“Yeah, well. I guess it’s a classic for a reason.” Vasya rubs his palms over her arms and says “Stay with me tonight.” She appreciates his unusual directness. “Alright, but I’m tired,” Beth warns.

 _”That’s perfectly alright.”_ She showers in his bathroom and slips back into her bra and underwear. Sleeping naked is a little too stimulating, even though the underwire is going to punish her for her choices. Beth needs her beauty sleep to whoop ass tomorrow.

They set an alarm this time.

Up bright and early, she has a vision of them snacking on scones in bright morning light in the tearoom, legs crossed and smiling coyly at each other. But it’s not to be. They dine at opposite ends of the room and Beth is careful to position herself facing the window to make sure she’s not making doe eyes at him.

Beth plays Klein and it’s an interesting game. Very long, long enough they nearly run out the clock, which is not her usual style. Sixty-eight moves total, heavy on the bishop use. Helmut Klein, lawyer by profession, world class chess amateur by hobby. Not amateur in the sense that he’s mediocre but more so in the sense that he doesn’t do it for a career. He acquits himself as a very strong player. Beth opens with the Nimzo-Indian defense to switch things up, be a little unpredictable. She’s well known enough now to have an established pattern of play. Pieces cluster on Klein’s end of the board early on, a dense tangle slowly swallowed up by the pawns on both sides. He presses his advantage with bishops, her own countering until his queen knocks it off the board. Then their knights are knocked out, too. This is where she normally gets lost, midgame. Closing it out is hard. She doesn’t need the ceiling to figure this out, though. Things aren’t that dire. Beth re-centers. They both have a litter of pawns, two rooks and a queen. She checks him with the queen, then eats his rook. Klein’s queen eats her rook. Their queens pace around each other, waiting for a misstep. Beth sidles her queen right up to his king and lets him go in for the kill. That leaves her an opening to queen her pawn. It’s a king’s and queen’s game now. 

He checks her constantly with his queen, pushing her further up the board. Beth’s queen is knocking out his, then his king is killing her queen. She only has three pieces left to his six and the game’s still already decided in her favor. No slip ups now. Her king pursues his ruthlessly, up and up until he’s hemmed into a pocket by his own pawns. No way forward for him now.

She glances up from the board for the first time in hours and takes in the room. There are a lot of people packed into the festival hall. Vasya is watching from back against the wall. She hadn’t even noticed. He isn’t smiling but his eyes have that look that conveys more bright feeling than a mouth can. Beth is warmed through and ducks her head, looks away and tries to convey nothing. Klein resigns. He shakes her hand and congratulates her on the win with poise. She clears her throat, rises to fetch her purse from where it hangs off the chairback, straightens her A-line skirt. Walking out of the festival, signing a few signatures along the way, Beth knows she’s fucked.

There’s a break at the middle of the day where she recharges, naps again, then opts to watch one of Vasya’s games. Just out of solidarity. From a passing look at the board, she thinks one should be happening two hours before her own.

He’s fearsome to watch now she’s getting to know exactly what’s happening for the other guy, like, mentally. She’s been described as a ruthless player before and always thought is was sexist malarky that focused more on her sex than her gameplay, but Vasya takes that misconstrued clinicality to a whole other level.

Beth plays Istvan Szabo next, widely considered one of the top five chess players in the world. His name, if rumor is to be believed, is literally Hungarian for “man with crown.” She can take him.

And she does, to a certain extent.

She leads with the King’s Indian Defense in the orthodox variation. Szabo brings his pawns and knights to the fore. They both castle. They both play a strong pawn game, with hers lined up against his in a tidy diagonal row across the board. Their queens become aggressive until rooks eat both. Beth checks Szabo with her knight and edges around him with it, where the outcome of the game suddenly becomes foggy. She glances up at him to assess, then back down at the board. It’s quite a puzzle. Beth checks him again with her rook to see what he’ll do. He moves one square over and looking at the board now it’s anyone’s game, laid out this way. She lets several minutes tick away without moving.

“Draw?” Szabo offers. She observes time ticking down on the clock, then bores a stare deep into his eyes, assessing. 

She knows it would be stupid to refuse. And she’s committed to trying a new way to play these tournaments - the long game. A lot like sobriety, really, except the addiction here is winning. Beth wants that prize money. But if she’s waiting for Vasya to slip, that would be a grave miscalculation.

She’s not using draws properly and she knows it. It’s time to learn better. But goddammit if there’s a chance to win - win properly - her instinct is to goddamn take it. This feeling is not one of victory, more like settling. Dealing in mediocrities.

Beth shakes his hand and assents. “Fine.” There’s a titter around the festival hall, atmosphere taking on an intrigued air. Cameras click and she’s really tired of that sound in a way she never expected to be.


	8. Parted

The next day, Beth beats another teenage prodigy, Epke Bauwens, Dutch, and Englishman Herbert Mullins quite handily, which buoys her mood. Nobody plays poorly, per se, but mistakes were made. Bauwens refuses to shake her hand, which, she’s been there and done that and it’s way less fun for him than it is for her. Mullins pulls her aside after the game to ask after her thoughts on teaching computers to play chess. Would she be interested in contributing to the project? Does she know of anyone else in the field pursuing this goal? What does she know about computers? Would she like him to teach her about them? Beth fields the odd-ball questions as gracefully as she can, which is to say not very. She makes her excuses and goes to watch Szabo in action.

This isn’t a circle of Russians learning off of and playing off of each other. That much is clear in watching Szabo duke it out with Laev, ending in yet another draw. There are fresh new ideas and strategies being deployed here and she’s absorbing more information each day, begins to seek out each game she isn’t playing to take in more.

Hodges is a dull opponent for the next morning, unoriginal and sweating nervously into his brown twill suit. But in the afternoon she battles Laev. Laev who she defeated in twenty seven moves in Moscow. He brings a much stronger game now, maybe something to prove if the look in his eye is anything to go by. Forty eight years old, Serbian-Yugoslavian, USSR player. His schtick is all about “playing the board and not the man,” whatever that means. Word is that he grew up unable to afford a chess set, so he carved pieces out of the corks of wine bottles to make his own. An old-world player.

He plays hardball.

Beth opens with the English opening symmetrical variation. Laev counters by bringing knights and pawns quickly to the fore in a near mirror of her own. Their bishops and pawns are holding in any progress that might be made in check. Her queens knocks his bishop and rook off the board, then pawns are gobbling down remaining pieces on all sides. Their queens commit murder-suicide. Laev checks her with his knight. She chases it off by wielding her king as a threat to it. Beth rests her bishop by her king and sits back to take in the board at a different, more removed perspective.

Their kings are facing off in the middle of the board, at a standstill. While Beth sees many paths forward, not many of them end in victory. She needs to collect more points more than she needs to risk a loss. She wants that goddamn prize money. “Draw?” she asks. It’s like pulling her own teeth to offer this. He accepts with a bob of his head and she feels something fold inwards in heart, wilting and unpleasant. She’s trying.

Vasya is more available to her than ever. They spend each night together for three blissful days. Sleeping, mostly. A good tournament can be fatiguing. They speak in Russian more often than not, Beth trying to get in as much practice as possible to keep the knowledge nice and fresh. In the end, she draws twice, loses once to Vasya on the first day, and wins six games. The loss is a point subtracted, so her final score is six to Vasya’s eight. He doesn’t lose and draws twice as well. Szabo snuck between them with a final score of seven point five, smart use of draws and no losses. Bauwens falls in after her, Englishman fleshing out the bottom of the scoreboard, Vulpe and Devaca in the middle. 

Beth always plays each game strategically but this time she played the tournament itself strategically, too. It worked well, up to a certain point. Her record is faultless except for Vasya. It’s not enough. 

After she lost to him, she was unable to regain enough points to challenge Vasya for first or even Szabo for second place unless she won every game straight through, which is frankly unrealistic for a tournament at this level of play. Even Vasya drew twice, as reluctant as he normally is to offer or accept one. Under heightened pressure to perform, perhaps? The outcome of the Moscow may have been embarrassing to some. It’s impossible to say and unwise to ask.

The award ceremony is odd. There are trumpets and people in three piece suits and ceremonial wear and just generally it’s a lot of pomp and circumstance. A side effect of an event being steeped in tradition. She stands on a little platform in the decked out festival hall, holly everywhere, and receives a bouquet of white flowers that’s a poor substitute for cold hard cash. Vasya doesn’t need it like she needs it but he gets it anyway. Third place. The fucking ignominy. He doesn’t even look happy or pleased up there on his literal pedestal as they all have their picture taken and answer a couple of press questions. But that’s his way. Hodges is at the bottom of the rankings and, interestingly, is off chattering in French to other Brits. Bauwens looks sour and Laev docile. Szabo seems very self-assured and comfortable in second place, a brass trophy cradled in his arms. She has to fight off tempting images of bashing the both of them over the head with their own trophies.

Eventually, they both have to leave England. Beth reserved her ticket home by phone after Vasya confirmed his flight time after they got back from the day trip to Canterbury. The flights depart tomorrow. There’s no point in lingering here if Vasya isn’t here. Well there is, actually there’s plenty, but it’s too much money to possibly justify.

Beth gets over herself enough to stay with him the night before, knocking on his door because she knew he wouldn’t knock on hers, or expect her to want to see him when they both know how painful it is to lose, the ceremony formalizing the loss. He seems to understand that. She wakes up in the middle of the night to a dog barking and can’t get back to sleep. He seems to understand that, too. Vasya crawls out of bed to fetch her a glass of cold water, rubs her shoulders a little in sympathy. She pulls his hand down to slip into her drawers.

Vasya is obliging, scooped up behind her and letting her move his hand and fingers to teach them the right movements to drive her insane. She comes with her head lolling against his shoulder, actually has saliva dripping out of the corner of her open mouth from how good it is, how out of it she feels.

Beth turns to scrabble at his chest, lay him down and encourage him to roll on top. He slips out of his drawers, grips himself to slide inside, nice and easy. Vasya’s gliding into her with how wet she is, the slow buildup of all the fingering having its payoff. She moans incoherently at him, sleepy and pleased. He’s in so deep it feels like he’s reaching into her throat. Vasya hammers into her fast and hard and she suspects he is enjoying himself but ready for sleep enough that he wants to hurry it along and conk out. Beth is unopposed, clenching around him enticingly to help him out. He groans deep and guttural, buries his face in her neck. The bristle of his unshaven face prickles as the sensitive skin there, a warming feeling. The strange wonder of human contact that can’t be duplicated or synthesized settling into her bones. He thrusts in one, two, three more times, then spills his spend inside. 

They curl around each other in bed and watch each other fall asleep. 

She sees him off in the morning, pressing him into the door to give him a proper good morning but careful not to tousle his styled hair. She reaches under his suit jacket to wiggle fingers beneath and snap both suspenders. “Bye, honey.” She says it mostly sarcastically, but for the first time in a while isn’t sure it translates. Vasya grins at her almost rakishly, with teeth even, and brushes one last goodbye on her cheek.

And then he’s gone, and so is she.


End file.
